The Year of the Dragon Omnibus

by James Calbraith

  Once again it struck Bran how much Dōraku knew about the Crimson Robe’s affairs.

  They’ve known each other for hundreds of years.

  “Were you one of the Serpent?” he asked, putting away the spyglass.

  “Never,” the Swordsman replied firmly. “I grew apart from the other Fanged long before the Eight gathered for the first time. I was one of the first, really. Me and Ganryū, died and Cursed at the same time. Of course, Chiyome was the eldest of us all, but…” his voice trailed off.

  “How did you die?”

  Dōraku’s eyes narrowed.

  “It’s a strange moment to ask a question like that.”

  “I’ve long been curious — and we might not get another chance to talk about it.”

  The Swordsman scratched his beard.

  “Betrayal. It was supposed to be just another duel; I’ve won many like it before. But my enemy’s blade was poisoned. I smashed his ribs and killed him on the spot, but he managed to scratch me. I suffered in agony for days before finally succumbing to the toxin.”

  “Was it Ganryū who killed you?”

  Dōraku didn’t answer, confirming Bran’s suspicions.

  “We should go back to the others. It’s getting late.”

  “A storm is coming,” Bran pointed to the steel-coloured clouds gathering on the eastern sky.

  Satō groaned.

  “A contingent of skilled swordsmen inside a fortress? Shouldn’t we just have asked Nariakira-dono for a hundred of his samurai?”

  “This is still Ogasawara land,” replied Dōraku. To her surprise he seemed to have taken her seriously. “Nariakira-dono would never agree to use his banners in what would be an open declaration of war.”

  “We need an army just to get inside. We’ve already faced the Crimson Robe once, and we’ve failed! With all the wizards of Satsuma and warriors of Kumamoto on our side.”

  “You didn’t have me,” the Fanged replied with a grin. “But what I’m most worried about is you, Karasu-sama.”

  “Me?” asked Bran.

  “Can you guarantee your dorako can be controlled this time?”

  Bran gazed in the direction of the island fortress, then shook his head.

  “I can’t. I don’t know what kind of power the Crimson Robe has over my beast. What I can guarantee is that, if it does turn against us, I will stop it.”

  Dōraku tapped his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

  “No matter now. Let’s get down to the beach.”

  Satō followed him down the path, but noticed Nagomi didn’t move from where she was standing.

  “What is it?”

  “I’d only be in the way…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “She’s right,” said Bran. Satō grimaced at him. Don’t!

  “We can’t risk her life again,” the boy continued. “She’ll be safe here until we come back.”

  Torishi sniffed. “There’s death in the air tonight.”

  He had arrived in the morning, having run all the previous day.

  Nagomi stood up straight.

  “I’m not a coward. I want to help, but I don’t know how.”

  “Against Ganryū you are as useful as anyone, if not more, princess-sama” Dōraku boomed over Satō’s head. “You wield the power of the kami. That’s the best weapon against the likes of us.”

  “Tell me then, Dōraku-sama, what should I do?”

  Dōraku shook his head.

  “This is not my domain. It must flow from within you — when the right time comes.”

  Nagomi nodded and passed Bran, who shook his head. The priestess turned.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  By the time they reached the shingle beach, the wind had picked up, surging high waves billowing against the shoreline. The storm clouds covered the sky with a black shroud, and any minute it was going to start raining. The white horses pricked their ears nervously.

  “We’re too late,” decided Master Dōraku. “Not even the Ikezuki can swim in that weather. Let’s get back to the camp and wait it out.”

  “No.” Satō stood up, defiant. Since Shūhan’s death she had been pushing away the thoughts about her future and focused on destroying the Crimson Robe, that cursed creature that destroyed her father and her life along with him. The very thought made the blood run hot in her veins.

  And there was something else, too… some force pulling her towards the island fortress, a deep yearning. She needed to heed its call.

  She put on the glove and studied the blue-glowing dial. Just as she had guessed, the oncoming storm was filled with magical energies.

  “We’ve delayed too long. We go tonight.”

  “Don’t be foolish, girl. Look at the waves. The tide is rising.”

  “We go tonight.” Her voice was sharp and strong, leaving no room for objection.

  “I am heir to the Takashima Dōjō. I will not be held back by wind!”

  Dōraku opened his mouth to oppose her, but seemed to change his mind. He looked at the horses, then at Torishi.

  “Are you up to it, Last of the Kumaso?” asked Master Dōraku. “No man swam the Kannon Strait in the storm before.”

  Torishi smiled.

  “What about a bear?”

  The Swordsman laughed.

  “Very well then! At least the guards will be less watchful in this foul weather.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The ship rolled gently on the waves of the Inner Sea. The weather outside was as fine as anyone could expect at this time of year — which wasn’t good news for the boat’s Captain trying to reach Chōfu, the capital city of Nagato, before the end of the month.

  Shōin didn’t mind. He had plenty of time. He was sitting cross-legged, alone, staring at the four cups of water before him. His cabin was a luxury he badly needed, but could barely afford, even after selling all but one of his books to the antiquarian in Kiyō. Each cup was marked with an elemental rune at the bottom. The cups were borrowed from the ship’s cook. The runes he had scribbled himself.

  He couldn’t focus on the magic; as so often lately, he was wondering what had happened at the Takashima Dōjō. An accident with a magic artefact, was the official explanation for Master Takashima’s death — but then, what happened to Takashima-sensei? Why didn’t she return to the school after the incident? And what of the other boy in the class, that annoying Keinosuke? Shōin never learned the answer to any of the questions. With the closing of the dōjō, he had no reason to say in Kiyō any longer. The school’s sudden bad reputation reflected on its students, and no other teacher of Rangaku wanted to take him in. It was time to return home and start preparing for the take-over of his father’s business.

  This did not mean, however, that Shōin was going to give up his studies. He knew he had talent; sensei had said so herself. It would have been improper to squander it. That’s why he was now playing with the water cups, desperately trying to clear his mind enough to execute a spell — any spell.

  He was trying to discover his affiliated element, just as sensei had taught him:

  You will choose your element, eventually, or rather, it will choose you. You will find some of the transformations are easier to perform, some invocations don’t require as much effort.

  He stretched his palms over the four cups, imagining the flow of magical energies through his body and down to his fingers; he was summoning a raw power, without focus. If his calculations were right, one of the cups should react to the magic faster and stronger.

  But it seemed his calculations were wrong. This wasn’t the first time he had tried the experiment; time and again, the results were the same: the frost rune made the water freeze, the fire rune made it boil; the water in the air cup bubbled up and the earth cup’s thin clay walls cracked. All at the same time and, as far as he could tell, with identical intensity.

  There was only one logical explanation to what was happening, but Shōin refused to acknowledge it. Perhaps I’m too you
ng and inexperienced, he thought. Perhaps my affiliation did not yet fully manifest. Maybe the difference is there, but too small for me to see.

  He bit his lips and felt the familiar jolt of power run through his hands; with each try, it came quicker and more powerfully. The four cups under his fingers burst into pieces.

  A gentle bump announced the ship’s arrival at Chōfu, and jolted Shōin out of his meditation. He looked around; the shards of a dozen cups were strewn all over the cabin’s floor, among the densely scribbled sheets of paper. The cook had refused to give him any more, so he had to try to mend the pieces together for his continuing experiments. The pieces broke into even more shards, until he had to forget trying to work with water altogether and start on just the broken bits of clay. He didn’t need the water as a conduit anymore, anyway; the clay itself melted, froze, whirled in the air or dissipated into dust under his fingers.

  He gathered his notes, picked up his only remaining book — the small handbook of basic spellwork from Takashima Dōjō — and the bundle of clothes, and stepped outside into the sun for the first time in over a week.

  As he waited his turn to step down onto the pier, Shōin noticed the crew and other passengers giving him frightened glances. He leaned overboard and looked at his reflection in the water. He saw a famished boy, with sunken cheeks, unkempt hair and deep blue bags under his eyes.

  That’s strange, he thought, calmly. No. That’s not me. I just need to rest and eat a proper, dry-land dinner. It’s the sea.

  And then he remembered the words of Satō-sensei and shook his head.

  “Their life energy is spent too fast. They die young.”

  The familiar yellow clay walls of the Chōfu castle town spread welcomingly before him, like mother’s arms. It had been two years since he had last seen them; he was eager to reach home.

  “You, boy!”

  Shōin walked on, recognizing neither the voice, nor a reason why anyone should call him.

  “Hey, you, with the book!”

  He stopped, turned and saw a man in the drab overcoat, marked with a red pentacle — the uniform of a Kiyō policeman. He was accompanied by another, younger man, supporting himself on a bamboo stick; a nasty scar ran across the left side of his face underneath a black eye-patch.

  They pursued me all the way here? Impossible…

  “That’s a Takashima book, isn’t it? I recognize the crest.”

  Shōin dropped his bundle of clothes, clutched the handbook to his chest — and ran. The policeman behind him swore and launched in pursuit; but this was Shōin’s home town. He knew every nook and alleyway. He zigzagged in the narrow streets, past the merchant’s houses, over the canal bridge, up the temple hill. He hid behind the pine tree and looked down the street. The policeman was nowhere to be seen.

  Who was this? What did he want?

  “Kuso!”

  Doshin Koyata returned to the harbour, swearing and panting. He found Tokojiro kneeling, rummaging through the boy’s belongings.

  “Leave it, we’re not thieves.”

  “If we don’t pick it up, somebody else will,” replied the interpreter. “He will be looking for these things.”

  “It’s just some spare clothes. He’ll get new ones.”

  “These may not be easy to replace,” said Tokojiro. He stood up with effort and handed Koyata several sheets of densely-written paper.

  “Some notes.”

  The doshin browsed through them quickly.

  “Magic.” He shrugged. “I have no idea what any of this means.”

  “Neither do I, but I recognize this hand-writing,” Tokojiro said, pointing to a comment scribbled on the margin in red ink next to a set of complex runes: Good thinking, but the last line is all wrong. Check your equations.

  “That’s the Takashima girl,” said Tokojiro. “The same as in the dragon book.”

  “So I was right. It was a Takashima crest.”

  “Of course. The boy must have been one of the school’s students.”

  Koyata scratched his nose, trying to remember his Kiyō investigation.

  “There were two boys in the youngest class… one was a son of an aristocrat; that couldn’t have been him. These are merchant clothes.”

  “Why does it matter who it is? Why do you care?”

  Koyata looked at the bunch of papers in his hand.

  “You’re right, it probably doesn’t matter. It’s just… it feels somehow ominous to meet that boy here, of all places. So far from Kiyō and everything we’ve gone through.”

  “All the more reason to leave this wretched place,” Tokojiro said with a grimace. “When does the Naniwa ship set off?”

  “Tomorrow morning. You should go to the guesthouse, get some rest. I’ll stick around, ask the locals. I may find somebody willing to deliver these things to the boy.”

  “You’re not in Kiyō anymore, doshin. This isn’t one of your cases.”

  Koyata smiled.

  “I can’t help it. A policeman is never off-duty.”

  Shōin followed the Mōri clan retainer nervously across the moat, up the sloping ramp, through the heavy wooden gate and up the stone stairs.

  He had never been to the Chōfu Castle before. In fact, he had never been inside any castle. The only reason a member of the merchant class like him could be summoned to a daimyo’s residence was to be punished or interrogated.

  Which one was the case here, he wondered? And why the secrecy?

  The retainer said nothing about the purpose of his visit when he had come to take Shōin away from his father’s workshop.

  He was led to a grand chamber at the third floor of the castle where he was told to wait for the lord of the castle to talk to him. Shōin lay prostrate on the straw mat floor, desperately trying to remember what he could have done that was of such importance to the daimyo.

  He heard soft steps and the rustle of silk.

  “Get up,” he heard a calm, but firm, voice. He sat up. A young man, no more than thirty years old, was staring at Shōin from the podium at the other end of the room. His mouth drooped a little and his cheeks were sunken; there was a sadness and world-weariness in the man’s eyes, surprising in one so young.

  “But you are just a child!” the man said. He shouted to somebody hiding behind the paper wall: “Are you sure that’s him?”

  “Yes, kakka,” another voice replied.

  This is the daimyo of Chōshu? This is Mōri Takachika?

  “How old are you, boy?”

  “I’m… fourteen, kakka.”

  The daimyo shook his head. He stood up and came closer to Shōin. He was holding some pieces of paper in his hand.

  “Are these yours?”

  Shōin looked up. My notes!

  “Yes, kakka.”

  “I found myself in possession of these a few days ago. Somebody was asking around in Chōfu for the owner of these papers.”

  “I… lost them at the harbour.”

  “Did you really write all these yourself?”

  “Yes, kakka. Some of it is just notes from school…”

  “Where did you learn magic?”

  “At the Takashima Dōjō in Kiyō.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “The school was disbanded. The headmaster died in an accident, and my teacher has gone… missing.”

  “Hmm.”

  The daimyo returned to his podium and browsed through the papers.

  “It says here you think anyone can be taught Rangaku. What does it mean?”

  “The scholars in Kiyō think you need to first show affinity to some of Yamato’s old arts — fencing, onmyōji, archery, the way of cha — before attempting to learn the Western magic,” explained Shōin. “Even the Takashima method, advanced as it is, involves weeks of unnecessary training with the sword, kakka.”

  “So you don’t believe that’s the way.”

  “I think anyone with the tiniest bit of talent can start learning Rangaku straightaway. It is, in fact, much simpler
than our ways. Even a commoner like me could grasp the basics in a matter of weeks. Of course, that’s just a theory…”

  Lord Mori nodded slowly.

  “I have a school here in the castle. You may have heard of it — Meirinkan.”

  “Of course, kakka. One of the three finest in the country.”

  The daimyo smiled.

  “That may be, but without a Rangaku faculty it’s quickly becoming obsolete. All my wizards are old and useless — or spies for Edo and Satsuma. I had my court mage read these notes. He could barely follow the more complex theories. I need someone whom I can trust. Can I trust you, Yoshida-kun?”

  “I am your servant, kakka!” Shōin cried out and beat his head against the straw mat in awe. To be spoken to in this manner by the daimyo of Chōshu himself was a privilege almost too great to bear.

  “You will establish a faculty of Western learning at Meirinkan. All my resources are at your disposal. You cannot fail. The tide of war is rising — and I’m going to need an army of wizards soon.”

  The evening sky darkened quickly under the thickening cover of the storm clouds. The horses treaded carefully into the foamy surf of the rising tide, their manes flowing in the wind. Bran sensed his mount’s hesitation. He caressed it on the neck, trying to calm it down. He lit up a faint flamespark and looked around to see how everyone else was doing; he noted that Heishichi did not yet move from the beach.

  “What’s he doing?” he shouted to Dōraku over the wind.

  “Leave him. His orders are just to observe.”

  Bran wanted to add some nasty remark, but a sudden tall wave washed over him, almost throwing him and Satō off the horse. They were now out into the open waters of the strait, and the sea heaved and tumbled all around them.

  This is insane. I should’ve known it’s suicidal.

  Another spray pummelled him. He felt Satō’s hands slipping off his waist and caught her just before she fell into the water.

  “We must go back!” he shouted to her, “before it’s too late!”

  “No!” She clung closer. “Hold my hand tight. Don’t let go.”

  “I don’t think that will…”

  “Just do it.”

  He grasped her wrist with all his strength. He felt her wiggle about for a moment, and then heard her cry a spellword in Bataavian.